


Gravity

by mabyn, spaceAltie



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fanart, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/pseuds/mabyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceAltie/pseuds/spaceAltie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has been hanging onto something ever since he dragged Erik out of the water.<br/>(fic+art)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to spacealtie for creating the lovely drawing that inspired these few lines, and to albymangroves for the beta.
> 
> (and thank you mabyn for creating inspiring prompts !... and sorry for giving Charles hair longer than in canon - 'cause that's the way I like him ;))
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT REPOST THE ART !   
> [ >TUMBLR LINK](http://spacealtie.tumblr.com/post/107222305707/gravity-an-illustration-to-mabyns-eponyms)

"Dammit."

The pain in Charles's finger fades to a dull throb. It's his own fault for being so careless. He sucks the shallow wound clean and wipes the blood from the metal shard he's carried in his pocket since the night he dragged Erik, water-logged and with only enough breath to curse him, out of the water. When they'd finally gotten him to sick bay, Charles had to pry the fragment away from Erik, who wouldn't yield it despite the blood seeping between his clenched fingers. It was the only thing he'd managed to wrest from Shaw's fleeing submarine.

Its ragged edges are still sharp, but Charles returns it to his pocket just the same and smoothes his shirt down, runs a hand through his hair even though no one is there to see him. By now Erik will have returned to his own room, probably already collapsed into bed after their final long day of recruitment.

Despite their mutual fatigue, they'd continued to debate the future of mutants on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and all the way back to CIA headquarters, stopping only when Raven called Charles away to figure out where the new mutants would sleep. Charles discusses mutation with other scholars, of course, but those conversations remain so academic Charles never feels personally invested, whereas Erik yanks every argument back to grim reality with an angry rawness that dizzies him and increasingly provokes a curious charge beneath his skin. He should be too tired to even think about these things, but he knows the danger he'd be in if somehow Erik were for once to admit—

The knock makes him jump. Charles's heart is suddenly in his feet, and his face heats as if he'd been caught fantasizing about something he shouldn't. Those long nights in seedy motels, the way their eyes had come together over a meal only to look away again, the touch of Erik's hand on his arm. It's a bad idea maybe, but a bad idea that tempts him like a dark forest trail that can lead nowhere good. Charles hurries to the door before logical objections surface.

As soon as he wraps his hand around the cold metal of the doorknob, the blaze of nerves burning him up extinguishes into ash. Although the mind on the other side of the door pulses with familiar determination, the emotions are all cool and controlled, nothing at all like Erik's volcanic brew, red hot no matter how aloof he sometimes seems. Charles tamps down on his disappointment. It would've been a mess anyway.

Moira pushes past him into the room and crosses her arms over her chest. There are dark patches below her eyes as if she hasn't slept. She's the only agent concerned about mutants themselves instead of how they can be exploited, and it can't be easy battling a boardroom of puffed-up men everyday. Even dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans, she's formidable.

"Is Erik gone? We need to talk about Russia. Alone."

*

Twenty minutes later, Charles is lurking outside Erik's room in the CIA compound debating what he thinks he's doing when the door unlocks and swings open. Erik stands on the other side in the same black turtleneck and nondescript grey trousers he'd been wearing earlier that day.

Erik pushes out the side of his cheek with his tongue. "Well?"

Charles clears his throat. "I, uh, Moira stopped by. There's an update about Russia, I thought—"

Moira had specifically ordered Charles not to discuss the Russian mission with anyone else. Erik in particular. Her grip on his arm had been tight when she'd begged Charles not to trust him. Erik was a loose cannon, she'd said, a danger to their goals, a man clinging to a personal vendetta rather than working toward a vision for peace. As she spoke, Charles had stroked the ragged edges of the metal in his pocket, more carefully this time, and levelled her gaze with his own. Erik had endured things beyond all imagining, true, but history didn't judge Spartacus to be the monster. Charles isn't blind to Erik's darker motives; on the contrary, Charles is the only one qualified to judge him. After all, he'd glimpsed Erik's mind, not Moira.

Charles has repeated that explanation to himself many a late night when sleep eludes him.

Erik waits for him to finish the sentence. The almost militaristic rigidity to his shoulders doesn't soften even when he doesn't need to be on guard, and Charles can't help but see a dozen Russian guns suspended in the air and a bullet shuttling toward Shaw's brain. Erik seeking revenge on his own is one thing; Erik laying siege to the home of an enemy general while to all appearances supported by the American CIA… Charles dizzies with the political implications. Perhaps he'd hurried to Erik's room too rashly. "I'm sorry. You must be exhausted. We can talk in the morning." He rubs his temple where a dull ache is beginning to form.

That's when Erik sees. Alarm flits across his features. "What happened to your finger?"

Charles drops his hand, but it's too late. Erik has already dragged him by the wrist over the threshold of the door and is angling his hand toward the light. The door slams shut behind them. Erik glares at Charles as if he's been personally wronged, and an angry red creeps up his neck. "Did you cut yourself?"

"It's just a scratch." Charles yanks his hand back, the skin burning from Erik's touch. After all Erik has suffered himself, Charles's minor cut, still blood-smeared from not cleaning it properly, hardly merits attention.

"How did this happen?"

The piece from the submarine shifts in Charles's pocket, but it takes him a moment to realize it's because Erik has zeroed in on it. He's felt Erik's curiosity about the metal before, but for the most part Erik has steered clear of asking what he's hanging onto. That idle interest now reworks itself into a probing question, one that Erik answers for himself when he draws the shard out of Charles's pocket and rotates it in the air between them.

Erik had been so delirious with anger and fatigue on the ship that Charles wonders if he'll even remember where the scrap of metal came from, but it isn't long before understanding spreads across Erik's face.

"You kept it?"

Charles nods. Erik's either going to be eager to get the piece back or pissed off at him for hiding it. Probably both.

But Erik's eyes are still on Charles. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt in the middle of … all this." Frustration narrows Erik's mouth into a thin line as he turns his attention to the shard. He cups his hand and makes circling motions through the air, and as he does so the fragment's ragged edges melt away until it's all smooth surface, like the abstract sculptures Charles has never been much good at deciphering.

He'll never tire of watching Erik use his gift, but he wishes rage wasn't his muse. Sometimes when it's just the two of them and Erik's mind calms, it's easy to forget what he's capable of, the destruction Charles has witnessed him almost achieve. "I didn't get hurt, not really. And I won't."

"Even a little is more than I can accept." Erik says it more like a mandate than a gesture of concern. He floats the shard back to Charles and drops it into his open palm.

It's so hot Charles almost drops it. "Thank you, my friend. Do you want to keep it now? I shouldn't have held on to it for so long, but I didn't want it to disturb you when you were still recovering."

"Quite all right." Erik turns away. "I hardly need another reminder of my failure."

Charles shakes his head. That word is the last he'd choose to describe the man in front of him. No one who survived the camps and found his way into the most advanced intelligence organization in the world could be considered a failure, but to Erik success means only killing his old enemy, just as Moira warned. If only Erik could see he has the power to prevent a third world war, show that mutants can be allies rather than something to fear.

Charles tugs Erik around by the shoulder so they're facing each other again. He slides his hand down Erik's arm and tightens it around his bicep. Only an inch separates them, but Charles restrains himself from making up the distance. "You're better than this."

Erik grabs his wrist and gently guides it away from his body. He looks almost apologetic. "No, I'm not. Of all people, I shouldn't be able to fool you."

"You don't." Even as he says it, Charles has to wonder if he's lying to himself. He wants to touch Erik again, touch Erik more, get past all those hard-won defenses and show him something more is possible, but Erik's shields are back up and he fears intruding.

The moment passes and Erik steps further away. "So what's this about Russia?"

"I can't —" Erik has all but told him he shouldn't be trusted, but Charles isn't able to keep anything from Erik. He just won't. The words tumble out before he can dwell on it any longer. "We've got word of a rendezvous point between Shaw and the Russians. An op is planned for this week. I think you should be there."

Erik's eyes widen, but after a moment he just lifts his chin.

"We're meeting at the car at five-fifteen Thursday morning." Charles pauses, not sure how to phrase it. "They won't be expecting you."

"Ah," Erik says. He's always quick to understand when it comes to people hiding things from him. There's a slight tug forward on the metal shard in his pocket, so faint Charles thinks he might almost be imagining it. Erik never found a way to smooth his own rough edges. "Thank you, Charles."

Charles nods. Erik is broadcasting a twisted melange of longing, fear, and hesitation that Charles avoids exploring too deeply. He's done what he came here to do. It's getting late, and they're both exhausted. Who knows what they'll find when they touch down in Russia, what Erik will do, if he'll follow the plan or pursue his own course. Charles pushes away the twinge of regret in breaking his promise to Moira; as long as Erik keeps looking at him like that, like he's the last person in the world he can trust, he has to believe it's the right choice.

They've been standing in silence too long already, and a question has begun to awaken in Erik's eyes. A month ago Charles would've answered that question without a second thought, but the ease with which he'd once moved through the world has grown heavy as if he'd spent his youth in a dream of weightlessness but woke to find himself dragged down by the unyielding gravity of Earth.

"No need to thank me. We're on the same side, Erik. Always."

When he leaves Erik's room, Charles doesn't let himself look back.


End file.
